Simply Complicated
by whispered touches
Summary: This was not happening. He was not in 1977; Ron's life was not in danger; Ginny was not at home without him; Albus Dumbledore was not in front of him, alive. He really wished he'd called in sick that morning. Abandoned. (Sorry!)
1. Predictability

-- Simply Complicated –

Chapter One  
Predictability

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

"This is _not _happening," Harry said dazedly; he closed his eyes and gripped his head, seriously fearing for his sanity. He wished he was right: This was _not _happening; he was _not _in 1977; Ron's life was _not _in danger; Ginny was _not _at home without him; the Death Eaters had _not _escaped; Albus Dumbledore was _not _in front of him, _alive._

He gripped the sheets of his bed so tightly his knuckles turned white. He felt himself swaying slightly and steadied himself, trying to keep composure. He sucked in a deep breath, and then another.

Okay. He was stuck in a time where his parents, his godfather, his almost-godfather, the person who betrayed his parents, his headmaster, and Voldemort were all still alive, and he wasn't even born yet. Great. Fantastic. He could handle this, no problem. He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived Twice, the Chosen One, the Savior of the Wizarding World, the Defeater of the Dark Lord – he could handle this.

Right?

Harry let his head fall back and pressed his hands into his face. No, he couldn't handle this. He was stuck in a time consumed by darkness with no way to get back home. He might have to end up killing Voldemort, destroying his Horcruxes, again (Just that slim, slim possibility made him want to curl up into a ball and cry).

He really wished he'd called in sick that morning.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

_Seven Hours Earlier…_

_OR_

_Twenty-Seven and A-Quarter Years Later…_

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

A cackle of mirthless, high-pitched laughter, red eyes blazing –

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

A heavy, horrible, sickening, _thump_ – footsteps – the sounds of desperate scrabbling around – a thrown-open door banging against the wall – a red-headed woman dropping a last kiss on her son's forehead, a forehead without a scar –

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now."

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead –"

"This is my last warning –"

"Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I'll do anything –"

"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"

Red eyes narrowing in anger and frustration – a pleading, tear-streaked face –

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Harry jerked awake, bolting upright. Morning sunlight was streaming in through a gap in the curtains; a single ray was shining into his face, and instead of waking him up, it irritated him more than anything else. He ran a slightly shaking hand through his hair and inhaled deeply.

He felt the mattress move and looked down, but Ginny didn't wake up, only rolled over onto her other side. Harry smiled at her, scooting further back under the covers and propping himself up on one elbow. Moments like these were his favorite, when he could just watch Ginny sleep peacefully. Her steady breathing calmed him, cleared his head; he appreciated them almost beyond anything else, these simple little nothings that wouldn't have mattered to anyone else. Small moments like these wouldn't be around much longer, he knew.

With a sigh, Harry tore his gaze away from Ginny and got out of bed. He had a big day ahead of him.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

"Got everything?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Positive?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright…"

"Ginny, I'll be fine."

Harry was used to this routine: Every time he left before a major mission, Ginny would worry herself silly, no matter how much he assured her that he would be fine. The first time he had asked her why she was so scared for him, she had turned away, mumbling something about how she couldn't "lose you again". After that, he accepted it, recognizing at the right times when to pull her into his arms and whisper promises into her hair.

"You'd better be careful, Harry," Ginny told him, attempting to be stern – she failed miserably. Her eyes were duller than usual, she was paler, and she was not smiling at him like she normally would before he left for work.

"I always am," said Harry. "Don't worry, Gin." He dropped a kiss on top of her head as she hugged him. "I could never leave you – especially not now."

She half-beamed, half-grimaced at him and pecked him on the lips. "Get going," she said. "Save the world for me."

"Been there, done that," Harry said cheekily, and he grinned at her before Apparating.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

Harry slammed his fist down onto the wooden table in front of him; Landhart's mug of coffee toppled over and spilled, dribbling down onto the floor.

"Pay attention," he snapped.

Alex Landhart was a very tall man, but as he was sitting down, his height did nothing to help his intimidation at the moment. This was the first time Harry had been teamed up with Alex Landhart, and the gravity of the situation made it no easier to become fast friends with him.

Landhart made a sour face at him. "You're not the boss of me," he growled childishly.

"Actually, Landhart," said Harry, enjoying the moment more than he knew he should, "I am. Robards put me in charge –"

"He put you and _Weasley_ in charge, last I heard!" Landhart argued.

"Yeah, and Weasley declared me unofficial leader," said Harry calmly, but he injected an edge into his voice that made Landhart shut his mouth and pout like a five-year-old (Harry knew from experience). Sighing, yet also smirking in satisfaction, Harry rubbed his face and walked back to the front of the room to the board he had set up.

He swept his eyes over the squad assembled in the meeting room in the Auror department of the Ministry. Ron was nearest him; in one of the two chairs at the head of the long table, his face was as set, determined, and freckly as ever. On Ron's right, on the side, sat one of Harry's other most trusted partners: Jackson Wilson had entered the department with Harry. Over the years, they had developed a friendship that consisted of insults thrown back and forth throughout the day, and joking about it over butterbeers at the Leaky Cauldron after work or at lunch. Jackson was from the States – Chicago, he'd said – and was a lot shorter than Harry, but at the same time appeared so much taller. He demanded respect, and most of the time, he earned it. On Jackson's right was Erica Fisher, who, although he had only worked with her once before, was one of the most sarcastic people Harry had ever met. She reminded him a little of Tonks, with her bubbly personality, and it only made her that much easier to like. Across from Erica was Landhart, and next to him was his partner, Bruce Peterson. Bruce had remained almost completely silent since the briefing had started, and that didn't seem likely to change. All the same, Harry had confidence in him if he could put up with Landhart.

"Alright," Harry said. "Today, we're going after the Lestranges. Please tell me you know who they are."

Bruce and Landhart were the only ones who didn't nod. Harry's jaw clenched. He heaved another tired sigh. If he had slept only _ten minutes _later…

"They're known for painfully skilled use of the Cruciatus Curse," he told them with difficulty. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Ron grimace. "Rodolphus and Rabastan are brothers – Rodolphus' wife Bellatrix was killed back in '98, after the huge breakout from Azkaban. They were put in for the first place because they helped torture the Longbottoms." The image of Alice Longbottom, eyes dark and empty, forced its way into his mind's eye and he mentally shuddered. "They're brutal, they're desperate, and will not hesitate to do the same to you."

"How would you know?" Landhart asked him obnoxiously.

"I know Bellatrix," Harry said simply, shrugging. He tried to fight off the rage that was building inside of him; Bellatrix Lestrange stirred up bad – horrible – memories, and Landhart was not helping that frustration. "And let me tell you – not fun."

The other Aurors cracked grins, but Harry shared an uneasy glance with Ron, whose eyes were burning with obvious hatred. Harry gave him a slight nod: _I know_.

"Anyway, we've tracked them to a shut-down store in Knockturn Alley. I have a feeling they're more powerful than Robards thinks, because we've done a sweep of Knockturn so many times it's not even funny and they weren't there. I had a bad feeling about that building, and… Ron?"

Ron sat back, crossing his arms. "I checked the place out a few months ago. It seemed pretty normal, a little dusty, nothing big – at least, until I checked the ceiling."

There was a pause. Then –

"Why the bloody hell would you check the ceiling?" Landhart asked with a snort.

Ron narrowed his eyes at him. "It was just… I dunno, like Harry said, it was weird. I cast a Reductor Curse at it, which would have blasted through the roof of a normal building, and it rebounded. Nearly took my head off."

"We had to get a whole investigation going," Harry picked up. "It was a mess. They tried everything – no results. There's something funny going on with that place, and I'd bet that there's some kind of… passageway, or something, that's letting the Lestranges get in unseen."

"A passageway?" repeated Erica skeptically.

Harry threw his arms up in a mixture of frustration and exasperation. "I've no idea, it's just a feeling."

"And his feelings are usually right," said Ron.

Jackson threw a wry grin at him. "You would know, Weasley."

Ron chuckled. "Yeah, I would. You don't know how many times this git's pulled me into some crazy thing where I'd think he was a complete nutter, and it turns out he's right."

"Get used to it, Ronnie," said Harry lightly. The others sniggered. Ron glared at Harry. Harry ignored him.

"The plan is," he said, "to surprise them. They've gotten careless – they've been sighted three times in the past ten days. They think they're safe – which they will be, in Azkaban."

Everyone, even Landhart, grinned at him. He returned it.

"Alright," Harry said loudly, clapping his hands together and turning to his board, "here's the plan…"

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

Knockturn Alley was as deserted as it usually was, with little to no pedestrians to worry about. Diagon Alley, however, was quite bustling, which the squad judged by the steady hum of shoppers making their rounds to Eeylops or Quality Quidditch Supplies, or whatever else they needed to get done. It was disconcerting to Harry that all of those innocent people had no idea just how much danger they could be in if two Death Eaters were in such close proximity.

He inhaled deeply, looking to make sure everyone was in position. He received thumbs-up all around.

"Here we go, Potter," he mumbled to himself under his breath.

Harry walked further down the pathway, pulling the hood of his cloak up and sticking his hands in his pockets, one fist still curled around his wand. He saw a quick movement on one of the rooftops and smirked slightly. This just might work, he thought.

He stopped in front of an old building. He couldn't read the name; it had long since faded into nonexistence, but he knew that it had to have had something to do with the Dark Arts and the like. Glancing around and trying to look as suspicious as possible, Harry slid his wand out of his pocket. He tried the door.

Locked.

He tapped the side of his leg with his wand as though in impatience, purposefully making orange sparks shoot out. He heard more scrambling of feet on rooftops, a heavy-yet-not-so-heavy thump, and Ron was next to him.

"What now?" he muttered into Harry's ear.

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "We go in," he said, as though it were obvious.

"But if it's locked –"

Harry interrupted him with a raised hand. He backed away from the front of the shop and looked up. He could see Erica, Jackson, Bruce and Landhart on the roofs of two other shops, where he told them to be; he beckoned Erica closer to the edge of her roof to where he couldn't be heard if there was anybody on the inside.

"Get on top of the place," he told her quietly. "Our element of surprise isn't going to be as great as it was, but we'll manage. As soon as you hear a spell fired, get in there."

"And if I don't hear a spell fired?"

Harry thought for a moment. "If we're not out in two minutes, come on in anyway. Tell the others."

"What are you –"

He stopped her from saying anything more by promptly walking away, preventing any arguments. He threw a sharp look over his shoulder at her. Erica rolled her eyes, but moved to do as he wished.

"Wand out," he mumbled to Ron.

"Plan on telling me anything?" Ron asked him; Harry could detect a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Nope," said Harry. "Just follow my lead."

He saw Ron's eyebrows raise, but kept quiet about it.

Harry took another deep breath.

He kicked open the door.

He was over the threshold before Ron could even begin to splutter incoherently, turning in every which direction to be sure he wouldn't be attacked from behind. He heard Ron's footfalls enter the dust-layered building and relaxed a little, but at the same time tensed.

The front room was deserted. There were empty shelves, now white with the absence of merchandise, lining the walls; a counter, L-shaped, stood in between two curtained doorways, the latter of which Harry tried not to focus on: Veiled arches reminded him of the same things Bellatrix did.

Harry saw Ron tilt his head at one of the curtains, and then nod at the other. Harry understood: _I'll take this one, you take that one._

His hands were sweating; he shifted his grip on his wand, approaching the dark, plum, velvet fabric. It, like everything else in the place, was peppered with dust, although it, unlike everything else in the place, was also moth-eaten and frayed. It seemed to be nothing more than a rag.

Harry slid it to one side. He stuck his head into the room, and looked to his left to find Ron doing the exact same thing. He grinned in spite of the situation and entered the room fully. It had stone walls, which looked almost blue, stone floors, and a stone ceiling. There were four large crates, stacked to create a cube, in the center of the room, pushed against the back wall. One thing that made him weary: The wood looked brand-new. It unnerved him.

"Go get the others," he muttered to Ron. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"Don't you always?" he heard Ron grumble to himself under his breath, but he could also hear the smile in the complaint.

It took only a few seconds for Jackson to come bounding in, looking frantically around for anything that needed taking care of. He and Harry nodded at each other.

That was the most enthusiastic acknowledgement Harry received out of his squad. The other Aurors walked in calmly.

"What's the plan, Stan?" Jackson asked him. Harry gave him a look; he rolled his eyes.

"Help me move these boxes," said Harry.

"He's gone mental," mumbled Landhart.

"A little late for that," said Ron and Jackson together. They moved and shoved the crates to the corner of the room, as Harry directed them. Once they were there, they moved back and saw a flight of steps leading downward.

"That wasn't here last time," said Ron, blinking.

"C'mon," murmured Harry quietly. "Be ready. They're going to be down here. I can feel it."

Harry heard a snort – even though he couldn't see him, he knew it was Landhart. He started forward, but hadn't even reached the fifth step down when he felt someone grab his shoulder.

"Mate," said Ron sternly, "you are _not _going down there first. Not this time."

Harry had rarely heard Ron use that tone before, but when he did, it was usually for something that had Harry's best interests at heart. Harry was sure what it was for this time, so he let his friend lead the way and followed after him, not missing Erica, Landhart, and Bruce's confused expressions and Jackson's happy, knowing smile.

It was pitch-dark in the basement – was it really a basement? Harry wondered – and even illuminating their wands didn't do much to boost their eyesight.

"Here," said Bruce suddenly, the first Harry had heard him speak. His voice was deep and gravely. "_Lumos Maxima_." A ball of light soared from his wand and hovered in the center of the room.

"Nice," he heard Erica mutter.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry thought he saw a movement.

"_Stupefy!"_

The red light lit up everything it passed as it traveled through the air, eventually disappearing into nothing when it hit a wall, next to which were more crates. Convenient, he thought dryly. Only a second later he saw a golden jet of light come shooting at Erica.

"_Protego_," he muttered quietly; the yellow spell ricocheted back to its caster, who Harry glimpsed ducking before it gave him a face full.

"Rodolphus! Rabastan!" he said loudly. "Get out here and save us the trouble of kicking your arses!"

"Not likely, Potter," a taunting voice said. Landhart shot a spell at where he thought the source of the voice was and missed completely.

Harry rolled his eyes. If they wanted to play the hard way, then so be it.

"Now!"

Immediately, the other five shot spells in every which direction – he heard Bruce say, "_Lumos Maxima" _again and the basement was fully lit; Erica said, "_Petrificus Totalus!_" but was blocked by a Shield Charm of the Lestrange's own and got hit instead; Harry muttered, "_Finite_," before she could topple over; Jackson was sending a series of multiple offensive spells around the basement, hoping to hit something; Landhart, Harry had to admit, was doing a good job of keeping track of where the brothers moved behind the crates; Ron was blowing up the crates with an onslaught of Reductor Curses, minimizing the Death Eaters' hiding spots.

Finally, the last crate was destroyed, and Rodolphus and Rabastan were revealed, mouths curled up into identical sneers, one's pose mirrored by the other.

"_Stupefy_!" said Harry.

Rodolphus sidestepped easily, returning with an obviously un-practiced, "_Sectumspempra!" _He made wild slashing movements over Jackson. Harry plowed him to the ground, just in case.

The other Aurors were still firing spells. Harry could not figure out for the life of him how the brothers were dodging everything that was thrown at them. Unless, he thought, understanding dawning as Jackson scrambled back to his feet, these weren't them…

Harry hopped up and all-out sprinted across the wood-strewn basement, ducking under only the occasional curse.

"Harry, what the hell are you doing?"Ron bellowed at him. Harry answered by punching Rabastan in the gut. He dissolved into thin air, followed shortly by his brother.

"Oh," said Ron. "I thought…" He shook his head. "You can't do stuff like this anymore, mate."

Harry nodded grimly. "I know."

"ARGH!"

They spun around: The real Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange were dragging Erica and Jackson, who were looking groggy, with their arms around their necks, wands to their temples; Landhart and Bruce were on the floor, unconscious. Both of them swore under their breaths.

"What are you going to do now, Potter?" taunted Rabastan.

Ron raised his wand, but Harry put a hand on his forearm. Ron shot him a startled look; Rodolphus laughed.

"That's right, Weasley. Don't make any decisions you might – ah – _regret._" His grip around Erica tightened.

"Drop your wands!" Rabastan commanded.

The two Aurors did so.

"Gee," said Harry, "I wonder who wears the pants in _this _relationship. Ron?"

"It's hard to tell, Harry," Ron agreed.

"Shut up!" the brothers snarled at the same time. Harry and Ron smirked.

Rabastan narrowed his eyes. "I doubt you would still be smiling if I let slip" – he gripped his wand tighter, jabbing it deeper into Jackson's skull – "a little curse, now, would you?"

Harry's jaw clenched. He took a step forward.

"Harry," muttered Ron seriously, so only Harry could hear him.

"Don't move, Potter," said Rodolphus with authority.

Harry took another step.

"I swear to Merlin – " said Ron.

"Potter, I'm warning you," said Rodolphus.

Another step. He was almost within a leaping range.

"– if you do something stupid –"

"Stay back, Potter!"

He was in arms' reach.

"– and leave my sister without you –"

"Are you deaf? I said stay _back_!" yelled Rodolphus in frustration. "_Depulso_!"

The Banishing Charm was a lot stronger than Harry expected: It lifted him off his feet, and he slammed hard into the opposite wall. The back of his head hurt; he felt it and dimly registered something hot and sticky there, dribbling down his back and onto his shirt.

"Damn it!" he heard Ron swear vehemently. "_Stupefy!_" Harry struggled to his feet as Rodolphus deflected the Stunner with a flick of his wand.

Rabastan groaned impatiently. "That's it! Let's end this! _Expulso_!"

"_NO_!" shouted Harry. "_Protego!"_

He was still not fully aware of himself, the result being that his Shield Charm was much weaker than normal. The Blasting Curse was slowed and powered down by his barrier, but not enough. It hit Ron full in the chest and sent him flying backward just as Harry had. Harry ran past him, noticing as he did so, with a sickened, horrified lurch of his stomach, that Ron's front was shockingly scarlet, and that his friend was completely motionless.

Harry bent down to his lower leg, tearing his spare wand away from its straps. He pointed it at Rabastan. "_Expelliarmus! Stupefy! Incarcerous!" _His spells were fired in such quick succession and now in such power that the Death Eater had no time to react before he was disarmed, unconscious, and tied up. Jackson was now still and on the ground; he was moaning slightly, however, and despite the fact that it probably meant he was in pain, Harry took it as a good sign that Jackson could feel anything at all.

Rodolphus let out a bellow of rage. He threw Erica to the ground behind him, where she lay limply. "_Crucio_!"

Harry fell to his knees, trying to keep a hold of where he was. He bit on his lip in his attempt to remain silent. He dimly registered Rodolphus mutter something else he couldn't hear, and his eyes closed as the agony doubled. Immediately, images flashed before his eyelids: Ginny, deathly pale, in the Chamber; Hermione, lying on a bed in the hospital wing, Petrified; the crack of Ron's broken leg as Sirius dragged him into the Whomping Willow; Cedric, eyes open and glassy, his face still mirroring determination and confusion and fear all mixed into one; Hermione, wincing when she moved suddenly over a month after the Department of Mysteries; Ron, always wearing long sleeves to hide the scars on his arms; Sirius, falling backward into the veil, innocently shocked – Harry was screaming by this point, screaming in physical and emotional pain, and he could feel tears running into his open mouth – Ron, terrifyingly still, because there had not been a bezoar; Snape's self-loathing as Dumbledore was suspended, broken, in mid-air before he plummeted down, down; Hermione, screaming, as Bellatrix tortured her into insanity; Fred, the ghost of his last laugh still etched into his face; Remus and Tonks, hands entwined, lying peacefully; Colin, so, so small in his death; his parents: Lily telling him he had been so brave, James telling him they were proud of him, that they would be with him until the end; Ginny, as still as Cedric, because Bellatrix's curse had not missed; Ginny, _now_, dead, her hands folded over her middle; his father, telling his mother to run, that he would hold Voldemort off _without a wand in his hand_; his mother, pleading for her son's life before she was murdered –

Harry was beginning to lose sense of where he was and who he was and even _when _he was. His nails were clawing at his face, trying to escape the memories, of what could have happened, and what _did _happen, and blood was dribbling down his cheeks from the cuts, mingling with the tears that would not stop falling… Harry could not remember anything about Ginny or anyone else, and because of that he wished it would end, wished it as wholly as he had when he had lost all hope when Fred had died. He would be with his family at last…

_Family._

The thought somehow threw off the Cruciatus Curse. Harry found himself curled up into a ball, his knees nearly tucked under his chin. He was facing Ron, and when he regained his vision he felt his insides go cold: He couldn't see that Ron's chest was still rising and falling. He was shaking so much he could barely move, but despite that he tried to push himself up. He fell back right away, his right arm completely useless. He grunted loudly in pain when he fell back on it.

Harry crawled over to his wand – both of them – and then to Ron. His eyes were half-open, and his breathing was shallow, but it was something. "Ron, don't die on me," he whispered frantically, staring at the mess Rabastan had made of his friend. The fronts of his robes were in complete tatters, revealing a mess of torn flesh, blood shining gruesomely. "Don't you _dare_ give up now, Ron Weasley."

Ron's eyelids flickered. Harry snapped his gaze up to meet Ron's, and wanted to cry again with what he saw: The bright blue hue Ron's eyes usually were had dulled drastically. Harry, of all people, knew what dull eyes meant.

"Harry…" muttered Ron.

"Ron, you aren't going to leave Hermione," said Harry, as half-angry, half-terrified tears started to pool in his eyes. "Your mum lost one son to Death Eaters. Don't make it two." His voice broke.

Ron's eyes slid closed again, but he was still breathing.

Harry swallowed thickly. "_Vulnera Sanentur_," he whispered: Some of Ron's colossal wound healed, and some of the blood returned to his body, so it was no longer so, so, so _deathly _pale, but not enough to definitely save his life. Left-handed and weak did nothing for him.

Knowing he had done all he could do, Harry looked over his shoulder to a sight he hadn't expected: Landhart was up, fighting both of the Lestrange brothers. Rabastan had obviously been untied and Reenervated by his brother, and as his gaze darted around his surroundings, it landed on Harry, and he received one of the deadliest glares he had ever even seen given.

"_Ferula_," muttered Harry, pointing his wand at his useless arm. A splint appeared out of nowhere and attached itself to his forearm, where he assumed the break was. He saw Jackson, Erica, and Bruce stirring, too, wondering what had happened. They took in the situation: Ron, on the floor and drenched in blood; Landhart, handling the Death Eaters; and Harry, on his knees, propped up mostly by his left arm, still trembling, gritting his teeth in pain. Shaking their heads to shake away their confusion, they snatched up their wands, moving toward the fight. Erica, however, came over to Ron.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Blasting Curse," Harry managed to get out. "I got a Shield Charm up, but I wasn't fully paying attention."

"And you?"

"Cruciatus" – Erica gasped – "and something else… something…" He trailed off, standing up. "Take care of Ron. Whatever you do, _do not let him die_. It means more to me – to his whole family – than you could ever understand."

"Harry –"

"I'm going in."

And he did. What Harry currently lacked in aim with his violent shaking and awkward forced left-handedness, he made up for in the power behind his spells. Rodolphus had to redirect a Reductor Curse up to the ceiling, which trembled dangerously.

Harry would never fully understand how it happened.

He could see Jackson, Bruce, and Landhart, sweat gleaming on their brows, about to each dodge a hex or curse. He could see Erica moving swiftly toward him, staying low to avoid being hit, her face pale and eyes filled with a nervousness that only came with telling bad news. He could see Ron, chest rising and falling more rapidly now, and he could see Rodolphus and Rabastan, snarling like wildcats.

Some sort of connection seemed to pass between the brothers: They nodded to each other. Stopping their constant spell casting, they wordlessly moved the rest of Harry's squad to the far side of the room. Highly suspicious and keeping on the very tips of his toes, Harry jumped to the side to avoid Rodolphus' Stunner; his still quivering legs gave out under him and he landed hard on his broken arm.

Seizing the opportunity, the brothers shouted together, "_Temporalius_!" pointing their wands at Harry. At once, he began to glow orange, at first only slightly, but then to the point where they couldn't even see his outline. Nobody spoke – they couldn't.

There was an ear-splitting _BANG_! followed by a drawn-out cry of pure, unhindered, indescribable agony.

Silence.

Rodolphus and Rabastan were gone. Harry was nowhere to be seen. Where he had lain only moment before was a lonely splint.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

**Well, there it is! The first chapter of the new-and-improved version of Simply Complicated is UP! I tried really, really, **_**really **_**hard to get it finished by 2010, but my schedule had other plans for me, and here I am. **

**I've gotta say, I love this version already so much more than the old one. Literally as soon as I upload this I'm going to get started on the second chapter. I won't have as much time on my hands as break ends on Monday, so it'll be back to school and more homework and less time with the computer. Don't worry, though – with any luck I can knock it out of the way this weekend. I **_**promise **_**it'll be up in the next three weeks (Sorry for the long estimate. I just always tell myself, 'Next week… next week… next week…' and then it ends up never getting done).**

**Now, just a little something to say…**

**If you loved this story before, thank you for Alerting it, Favoriting it, etc., etc. I hope you enjoy this new version as much as I already do. If you are just now joining the party… hold on tight.**

**POP QUIZ!**

**Virtual cookie to anyone who can tell me when it is in Harry's time and why Ron is being so overprotective of him. It's kinda obvious, but at the same time not so obvious. It might just be obvious to me, because I know what to look for… Hmm… Suspicousness…**

**Thanks for re-joining or joining the reading of this story! Enjoy the ride!**

**(The Harry Potter series is owned by J.K. Rowling and all of the bajillions of people that helped her publish, edit, etc., the books. If I had a dollar for every book I have published, and it was my only money, I would be broke. (That spelling doesn't look right to me. Is it?) I am not making money off of this story, although it would be really awesome if I were.)**


	2. What One Might Call a Shock

-- Simply Complicated --

Chapter Two  
What One Might Call a Shock

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Screaming… being ripped limb from limb… crashing… ankle throbbing… hazy figures of people hovering over the bed... potions… tingling… sleeping… sleeping…

Sleeping.

Harry opened his eyes and his brain registered four things: He could see nothing but white; His glasses weren't on his face; Every part of his body – his arms, his legs, his fingers, his knees, his _ears_ – felt as though they had been individually subjected to the Cruciatus Curse; and finally, nobody was holding his hand.

The last item may not have seemed important to anyone who didn't know him, but to Harry it meant that his family hadn't been alerted to where he was. Ginny was always there by his bedside in St. Mungo's, waiting anxiously for him to regain consciousness. The fact that she wasn't there helped his foggy brain clear itself, and try to assess the situation.

If he wasn't at St. Mungo's, there were two possibilities: The Lestranges had captured him with that horrible orange spell, or, more likely with all the white, he was dead. Neither of those possibilities was particularly inviting.

Slowly, cautiously, Harry made an attempt to sit up. Blinking rapidly, he was just able to lift his shoulder blades before his muscles ceased to function. Gravity pulled him back down again, and the sudden contact made him groan in pain. He inwardly cursed himself for letting his vocal chords do so: The longer the Lestranges – because he knew now that he couldn't be dead if he could feel such pain – thought he was incapacitated, the better.

One thing, however, confused him. His back had come into contact with something soft, like a bed; Death Eaters wouldn't treat him to a bed. They would throw him roughly into a stone cell, most likely with painful charms on it should one attempt to escape. This felt like a _bed_, with _pillows_, in a _hospital_, none of which would be found in close proximity of the Lestranges.

Harry heard footsteps as he stared blindly upward. "Oh, good, you're awake," said a brisk voice. He felt his glasses being slid gently onto the bridge of his nose. He blinked a few more times to regain his vision, and when he did, he gained no answers to the numerous questions he had bouncing around his head and many, many more queries.

Madam Pomfrey was hovering above him, looking much younger than she had the last time Harry had seen her. She checked his pulse on his left wrist, then moved around to the other side of his bed to look at his other arm, which he noticed was wrapped in gauze.

"Nearly healed," she muttered as she felt it, giving slight squeezes of pressure to assess it and making Harry wince each time she did so. Pomfrey remained oblivious to this, however, too busy looking him over to notice.

"The headmaster wants to speak to you," she told him; she did not look at his face. Without a second glance at him, she turned around and walked back to her office, the door closing with a snap. The snap had not died away when the main doors to the hospital wing opened, crashing against the wall with a boom.

Harry had seen many strange things in his life, but nothing, not even Ron and Hermione deciding to suck face in the middle of a battle to the death, could prepare him for this: Albus Dumbledore was striding toward him.

He rubbed his eyes. He was hallucinating, he had to be. The Lestranges had put a spell on him, making his brain project images that couldn't possibly be real. Albus Dumbledore was dead – Harry had seen the green light of Snape's Killing Curse illuminate the man's wrinkled face, watched him topple backwards over the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower, watched him fall, fall… He'd seen Dumbledore's body lay twisted and broken, he'd seen his portrait appear in the headmaster's office. Albus Dumbledore was, by all accounts, dead, yet here he was, hands folded and looking at him with polite interest.

"Good afternoon, sir," said Dumbledore.

Harry's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He cleared his throat and shook his head. Be an Auror! his brain screeched at him. You _are _Harry Potter, aren't you? He needed to get his act together. This was, after all, a trick.

"Hello," said Harry, trying to sound at least somewhat confused, which, in all reality, wasn't too hard. "Excuse me, but… what happened?" Good job! said his brain, a little sarcastically. Get some answers!

Dumbledore's silver eyebrows rose. "How much do you remember?"

"Er… nothing," said Harry, fake-sheepishly. He remembered quite clearly the pain of the Cruciatus Curse, and the other spell Rodolphus had placed on him that acted like a dementor. He could recall vividly Ron's limp, lifeless form, eyes beginning to go glassy and unseeing...

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Well, from what I have been told, you were seen spinning rapidly above the Quidditch pitch, and then crashed down to the ground. Our gamekeeper found you and brought you here."

Harry nodded. That made sense… kind of. Not really. But it was what he had to go on. The Lestranges knew Hogwarts was where he felt safest – they must have forgotten his age, though, if everyone looked _this_ much younger.

"Now," said Dumbledore, with a certain edge to his voice, "why don't you answer the question correctly?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Sir?"

"My friend, I may be old, but I am no fool."

Harry grimaced. Biting his lip, he cast around for something that would give him more information about his situation. He would need it if he wanted to play along, and, in turn, stay alive.

"What's your favorite jam flavor?" he blurted.

"Raspberry," answered Dumbledore, easily hiding his shock. Harry could see something in his eyes change. The hardened look in them dissipated slightly, and the ever-present twinkle brightened. "The question, sir."

Harry swallowed, glancing around nervously. He saw his wand on the bedside table and snatched it up, casting _Muffliato_ on all of the walls of the wing. He was positive now: There was no way out of this, and things here may not be what he suspected; his heart was beginning to thump wildly. Could it be…?

"I don't want to be overheard," he said, in response to the headmaster's questioning and suspicious glance. He took a deep breath; talking to a dead person was nowhere near his definition of fun.

"I'm an Auror," he began, "and today my squad and I went after Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, in an abandoned shop in Knockturn Alley where we believed they had been hiding out. Well… we found them. We fought, and the other five in my squad were knocked out. I was –"

"Put under the Cruciatus Curse, broke your arm, yes," finished Dumbledore, nodding. "I am aware. Continue."

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. "Eventually, it was just me fighting them together. My leg gave out, and they cast a spell on me. It was orange, and… the pain…" He pushed that memory out of the way. "Now… I'm here."

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "I see."

There was an awkward silence, during which Harry paled to match the Bloody Baron, and Dumbledore looked the most contemplative Harry was sure he had ever seen him.

"Professor," started Harry, at the same time Dumbledore said, "If I may –" They chuckled uncomfortably. "Go ahead, sir," said Harry.

"No, that's quite alright," said Dumbledore.

Harry grinned mischievously, trying to cover up his blatant fear. "Age before beauty, Professor."

Dumbledore laughed, his mustache quirking upward as the only sign that he was smiling. "You have a very witty sense of humor, Mr. …"

Harry stiffened. That was it, the final clue. Not even the Lestranges could make an illusion that was _this _close to Dumbledore. This Dumbledore in front of him was absolutely, one hundred percent authentic, complete with the familiar, welcome feeling of being x-rayed through the half-moon spectacles.

He swallowed, sure that he was about to get a wand stuck nearly up his nose. "Potter, sir. Harry Potter."

Dumbledore's expression did not change. Harry saw his hand tense discreetly, ready at any moment to reach for his wand. The Elder Wand, Harry realized suddenly. Would it still recognize him as its master, even if he was where he thought he was?

"I did not know that the Potters had another relative," said Dumbledore mildly.

Harry gave a small smile that resembled a painful grimace more than anything else. "They – er – don't, sir."

Faster than he could blink, there was, indeed, a wand pointed directly between his eyes.

"Am I to assume, then," said Dumbledore, "that you are a Death Eater in disguise? That you are here to spy on me, on the orders of Lord Voldemort?"

Harry knew that Dumbledore was testing him; if he flinched, it would be a sure sign that he was a Death Eater; if he didn't, it would clear him. He wanted to smack himself: He had stiffened at the mere accusation of being a Death Eater, and to someone who noticed small things like that – someone who was _Dumbledore_ – it was as good as a confession.

"Show me your arm."

Harry rolled up his left sleeve, noticing that he was still wearing his Auror robes. They were still covered in Ron's blood, and a little bit of his own. Not helping, he thought, a little desperate.

Dumbledore nodded once, somewhat disappointed that there was no Dark Mark. Harry was just about to shake his sleeve back down when the headmaster said quickly, "Wait. What is that?"

Harry looked at his arm again. In the middle of his forearm, there was a thin, white, ovular mark. He rubbed his other hand over it; it was a rougher patch of skin than the rest of his arm, courtesy of the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. Ginny… he thought painfully. He had to get his answer soon. If he was here… If he couldn't get back…

"Snake bite," said Harry. He allowed Dumbledore to use Legilimency, but thought of Nagini and only Nagini, on that horrible night in Godric's Hollow. Dumbledore seemed satisfied and pulled out of his thoughts with a heavy sigh.

"Professor, please – listen to me –"

But Harry didn't know what he wanted Dumbledore to listen to. He didn't know what to say. Dumbledore looked at him with a much softer gaze (Harry couldn't exactly call it "softer" – "less hard," perhaps).

"I – I –"

He sat up further, grunting in pain; he was highly aware that Dumbledore's wand was still out, and that his gaze was still untrusting. He shook his head a few times, covering his face with his hands. How could he ask this question without sounding like he belonged in a straitjacket?

Ron's voice came back to him: "…I'd think he was a complete nutter, and it turns out he's right."

Maybe, just maybe, this was crazy enough to work; Maybe Dumbledore would understand his hint, maybe he would work out the hidden meaning behind the words. Maybe he could retain his sanity. Maybe… maybe there were too many maybes in his life for anything to go right at all.

"Professor Dumbledore, what year is it?"

Harry held his breath.

When the older man next opened his mouth to speak, he said only three words, and none of them were altogether surprising. He did not ask how Harry knew his name – he was, after all, one of the most famous wizards ever to have walked the face of the earth – and he did not seem at all shocked by the question. He also did not find it odd that he had to give his answer.

"August of 1977."

Harry felt all of the air vanish from his lungs. His last hope – maybe it really _was _an illusion – had just been clubbed over the head with a metal bat, kicked, stomped on, and burned to the ground. This had just gone against the laws of the universe. Sure, Time-Turners existed (and the Department of Mysteries had rebuilt their stock), but they were only good for a few hours, not more than two decades.

He felt lightheaded. The room was twisting and spinning, but he could see perfectly fine. He couldn't breathe. His heart was pumping so fast he might have just run a marathon. This was not possible. He blinked, again and again and again, as though it would clear his vision.

Dumbledore handed him a glass of water, which, instead of drinking, Harry poured over his head. He looked at the headmaster again.

"I see some of my suspicions were correct."

Harry would have loved to ask, "Which ones? The one where I'm a Death Eater, or the one where I travel twenty years into the past?" but his voice wasn't working, nor could he get enough air into his lungs to even complete a sentence, so he remained silent.

"Your name really is Harry Potter?"

Harry nodded.

"And am I correct in guessing that James Potter is your father?"

A jerky move of the head that could pass for a nod.

Dumbledore looked at him more closely.

"And Lily Evans is your mother?"

It was just barely a twitch that gave any indication this time. He was too used to people saying, "James Potter _was _your father," and, "Lily Evans _was _your mother". Now… they were alive. They still existed, they still walked and talked and _lived_, and they were still making the memories that Remus and Sirius told him about.

Dumbledore was still watching him. He was obviously waiting for Harry to say something, but Harry still couldn't find the words to describe the icy, terrifying fist of fear that had his insides in an iron grip.

It was hitting him like a hammer to the head. So many people here were still alive. His parents, Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore – his thoughts turned onto a darker path – Pettigrew, Bellatrix, Greyback… Voldemort.

Harry fought down the vomit that had suddenly decided to climb its way up his throat. No, he couldn't be here, not now. He couldn't deal with a world in terror like this… He couldn't deal with having Voldemort out there, killing, torturing. He couldn't simply hole himself up in the Department of Mysteries, looking for a way to get back home, when he was still the only one who could defeat Voldemort. He couldn't go after him again – once was enough. He couldn't handle the pressure of finding the Horcruxes – but he couldn't just sit back and let the Darkest wizard of all time take innocent lives!

This, above everything that had ever happened to him, was too much. Being the cause of two people's deaths, going through all of the emotional turmoil he had, he could handle. This? No. He couldn't take this, not now. Not when things in his time were the way they were.

He gripped the sheets of his bed so hard his knuckles turned white. He felt himself swaying slightly and steadied himself, trying to keep composure. He sucked in a deep breath, and then another.

Breathe, he chanted internally. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Harry gave up. He let his head fall back and pressed his hands into his face. He felt his heart rate begin to steady – his mind was slowly and steadily emptying, leaving a blissful, gaping hole of no feeling, no thought. He didn't have to swirl possibilities and problems around in his head. He could just sit there, forever, until he was born, and be. Just exist, in an endless pit of nothingness.

"Harry?"

He lowered his hands and opened his eyes again.

Dumbledore had obviously grown tired of waiting for an answer, which, had he not been in such shock, would have surprised Harry; Albus Dumbledore as he remembered him was a very patient man.

"Do you think you could –"

Madam Pomfrey had opened her office door again and was making her way over to Harry's bed. She stopped short when she saw the headmaster was still present.

"Oh." She seemed flustered. "Headmaster. I'll just –"

"No, no, it's quite alright, Poppy," said Dumbledore with a small smile, standing. He did not leave the hospital wing. "I was just wondering if you could check on our friend here and see if he would be well enough to accompany me to my office."

Pomfrey blinked a couple of times. "Of course, sir. I'll be just a moment."

She helped Harry to get wobbly to his feet. She felt his arm again, cast a few spells, and warned him, glaring, that he'd better take it easy or he'd be hearing about it. Harry swallowed and nodded, but stopped, because it made his head hurt again. He hadn't realized how much hard he had hit it on the back of the bed.

Harry's leg was still very sore, making him and Dumbledore have to go much slower than they usually would have. Once or twice he had to pause, not so much as to stop limping as to remember a spot where someone had been injured or killed in the final battle. Even now, nearly seven years later, the ghosts still haunted him…

Harry didn't let himself think any more while the two of them were walking (and it was much harder than usual; the trip must have taken at least twice as long). He simply stared ahead, plunging the halls into silence except for the sound of their shoes hitting the stone floors. He didn't even crack a grin when Dumbledore said jovially, "Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans" as a password.

The room looked just as it would in a couple of decades, though it was lacking two portraits: One of Snape, which Harry had fought the Ministry to have made and put up, and one of the wizard in front of him.

"Sit," said Dumbledore, sternly but not unkindly. Harry did so, careful of his leg and trying to make it feel like he was only visiting McGonagall, and Dumbledore's portrait was talking to him. It didn't work as well as he would have liked.

Dumbledore didn't say anything else for a few moments, letting Harry get a hold of himself. As if worrying about things back home wasn't bad enough, he thought.

"So, Harry," said Dumbledore, looking like he would rather not have been the one to start the conversation. He obviously thought it was would be odd to introduce himself to someone who had most likely already met him, but he didn't know Harry. Harry had to agree.

"Am I to assume that I am, perhaps, dead, in your time?"

Harry gave a little start. He hadn't expected Dumbledore to guess so soon, let alone at all.

He swallowed again, this time past a lump in his throat. "Yes, sir."

"I see," said Dumbledore, more dramatically sorrowful than Harry could ever have imagined. "I do hope it was peacefully, in my sleep."

Harry's eyes flashed. He wished they wouldn't. It always gave away how he felt.

Ever since the end of the final battle, Harry had been protecting everyone who had died, most of all Dumbledore and Snape. "Without Dumbledore, I'd be dead. Voldemort wouldn't be." That was always his argument. Sometimes "Dumbledore" was just exchanged for "Snape."

He clung to that memory, however odd it may have been, because it was the first time George had cracked a joke or even a smile since Fred had died. "Sounding like a broken record there, Harry," he had said dully, the faintest glimmer of amusement returning to his eyes. Harry had beamed at him, while George's mother had seized him in a tearful hug.

"I wouldn't say so, sir," said Harry, wishing his voice would calm itself. "You did more than you give yourself credit for."

There was a pause.

"I haven't exactly done it yet, though, I suppose," said Dumbledore thoughtfully.

"Well, that's time travel," said Harry, giving a half-hearted shrug. He wasn't sure his head could take much more of this.

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed, leaning forward in his seat and placing his hands, folded, upon his desk, "indeed it is time travel. We need to find you a way home. What was the spell the Lestranges used on you?"

Harry heard the disappointment in Dumbledore's voice when he said "Lestranges." He remembered the way he had done the same thing when Voldemort had shown up looking for a job.

He struggled to recall exactly what the incantation was. His heart had been racing with fear, and his actions had been controlled by his instincts… His ears really hadn't been paying attention to what was going on…

"_Temporalius_," he said, suddenly sure of it. "They pointed their wands at me after they moved the rest of my squad out of the way, and shouted '_Temporalius_.'"

"Ah," said Dumbledore gravely, nodding. "I have heard of that spell. It is very rare, and I believe it can only be found in the Darkest of spellbooks."

"Which would explain why nobody I know will ever have heard of it," added Harry, thinking of Hermione, but he stopped quickly. It was painful. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that things couldn't be so convenient in his life.

Dumbledore seemed pleased that Harry didn't associate himself with any Death Eaters or the like. "Yes, well, from what I understand, it is a time-travel spell that was meant to be used on the first Time-Turners, but was declared illegal when its creator, Demeter Dialga, vanished when she performed it for a crowd to prove it worked – which it obviously didn't."

Had Harry _not _been in 1977, he may have remarked that he didn't come for a History of Magic lesson, but he just clenched his teeth, hoping he could trap his terror between them.

"The spell was also declared illegal because it is very, very painful for use of a living thing," said Dumbledore.

"No, really?" said Harry sarcastically, making a show of shifting so that his back screamed in pain again. He regretted his tone, but he knew he had always used anger and scathing comments to relieve his stress.

Dumbledore looked neither offended nor surprised. He simply sighed deeply, and finished with the words Harry hoped with all his heart would not be spoken: "In short, there is no way for us to get you back to your time."

Harry nodded once, trying not to let it show that he wanted to throw himself off the Astronomy Tower. He couldn't live in a world without _anyone _from his time, not a single living soul –

And again he stopped his train of thought. His parents were alive here… Sirius, Remus... they were all alive… Very soon, they would be coming here, to Hogwarts… But how could he get to know them if they would be in classes? It wasn't like he could come back for his seventh year – he didn't need to or want to – he would stick out like a Death Eater at an Order meeting.

Then a thought came to him – an insane, crazy, impossible idea that scared him just as much as the prospect of defeating Voldemort a second time did, an idea that was so horrible yet so genius that Harry thought his head would explode if he even began to know what he was talking about. He was hardly aware that Dumbledore was watching again, but he knew the manic glint in his eye sparked noticeably.

"Professor," started Harry slowly, "you wouldn't… _happen _to be in need of a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, would you?"

Dumbledore peered keenly at him over the top of his half-moon spectacles, eyebrows raised slightly. Harry could see a grin inexplicably unfolding under the mass of white beard.

"What are your qualifications?"

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

**Oh. My. God. You have NO idea how bad I feel, and I am SO not kidding. It's more than a f***ing **_**month **_**late, going on two. Every time I saw it added to alert, or favorite, I felt a little sick to my stomach, seriously. **

**So here's what happened: My computer got a virus. Wouldn't work for about two and a half weeks, and then, just when it got working again, our power went out. Because it snowed. It snowed in Texas. It was **_**INSANE. **_**And then I thought it was working again, but it wasn't. And then I just, sorta… procrastinated.**

**Here's my new updating deal: At least once a month, but hopefully more often. I'm going to try to get another one in this month to make up for February. Spring break is coming up, so that'll be a good chance.**

**One last thing: Two little contests in this one. If you can tell me which show this – **"an idea so… genius that Harry thought his head would explode if he even began to know what he was talking about." **– is copied from almost word for word, you get a virtual cookie. If you can tell me from what I got "Demeter Dialga" from – two different things – you also get a virtual cookie. If you get both, you get a virtual cheesecake. Yum!**

**Again, sooooooo so so so so so sorry! You have no idea!**

**(The Harry Potter series is owned by J.K. Rowling and all of the bajillions of people that helped her publish, edit, etc., the books. If I had a dollar for every book I have published, and it was my only money, I would be broke. I am not making money off of this story, although it would be really awesome if I were.)**


	3. Author's Notes Mean Bad News

**Brother. Trucking. Son. Of. A. Ditch.**

**I. Am. _SCREWED._**

**Holycrapholycrapholycrap, I'm a bajillion times sorry that it's been so long and for what I'm about to say, but my good computer's been crashed since the beginning of April, and I've had to use this big crappy one again, and we still haven't gotten it fixed and we probably won't soon and oh, God, I'm SO FREAKING SORRY.**

**I can't... I can't commit to this story right now.**

**I just _can't_. I've got a pack of rabid plot bunnies that want carrots that _I don't have_ (in other words, time for), a sudden social life has hindered my computer time, and most of my days are spent in bed until about noon and then doing nothing else all day, so... yeah. And my Wii as suddenly regained my interest (just finished the plot of Harvest Moon: Tree of Tranquility today! Yipee! -ahem...-), so I spend hours on that, and a whole bunch of movies are suddenly really good and I want to go see them - been there done that with Karate Kid (I want to marry Jayden Smith - he's got abs!), and I want to see Inception and The Last Airbender and Grown Ups and Despicable Me and a lot of others, and...**

**God, I suck. I am a horrible, horrible person.**

**My inspiration for this story has fizzled out. I just _CAN'T - GET - THE NEXT - CHAPTER - RIGHT_, and it's driving me insane, and I'm really busy with other stories that I need to find inspiration for so I can get them out of the way so I can work on this, but then more stuff popped up, and then, just... bleh.**

**I hate writer's block.**

**So this story is officially ON HOLD. Nothing anyone can is going to change my mind. I'll come back to it, I promise (whoa, deja vu, huh?), but I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA when. Maybe weeks, maybe months, maybe years... But this time I'll come back with more of it written. The first two chapters will stay, if not be edited slightly here and there, and when I come back with the real chapter three, this'll go away. Check on my profile every now and then for updating notices. Again - I'm sorry.**

**On the plus side, I have a new swimsuit!**

**PS: Go ahead. Send those angry reviews. I'm ready. -gestures to protective gear, fort of pillows, and a small black dog with a sign that says 'BEWARE OF DOG'-**

**PPS: In those angry reviews, would you mind telling me if I should change my username to... UpInTheOliveTree or ATwistInMyStory or keep it XAPY? Or just vote on my poll? Thanks, muffin.**

**Seeing you in a few months or years or so,**

**XAPY**


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